by Loree Lough
She quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt, stuffed her feet into clean white socks, and raced back down the stairs, tucking her hair into a loose ponytail as she went. Simon wasn’t in the living room as she’d expected. Instead, she found him at the stove, where a big pot of water steamed beside a pan of simmering sauce. He held its shining stainless lid in one hand and a big wooden spoon in the other.
“What brand is this stuff, and where’d you buy it?” he said, smacking his lips. “’Cause I’ve gotta tell you…it’s the best I’ve ever tasted!”
“You can’t buy it,” she admitted. “I made it myself.”
“From scratch?”
“Well, not exactly. I start with canned tomato paste and stewed tomatoes.”
Simon rinsed the spoon under hot water then dropped it into the sink. “If that isn’t ‘scratch,’ I don’t know what is,” he said, drying his hands on a red-and-white-checkered towel. “What do I have to do to get your recipe?”
Just keep standing there, looking all big ’n’ brawny, she thought, grinning to herself.
“Wow,” he said, brows high on his forehead. “I didn’t realize I was hungry till I took a taste of that stuff. Now my stomach is growling like a grizzly. Bet you can hear it from there.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so Julia walked to the fridge and stacked lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, butter, and unsliced bread in her arms.
“Can I help?”
Her first instinct was to say “No…just relax.” But he looked so much like a wide-eyed eager-to-please kid that she said, “How ’bout you set the table while I make the salad and get the garlic bread ready for toasting.”
Rather than asking where she kept the plates, Simon opened and closed cabinet doors until he found them. After sliding the top two from the stack, he rummaged in the drawers for flatware. He distributed them as if dealing a hand of cards, and Julia wanted to say “Napkins on the right” and “The knife goes next to the spoon.” But she merely smiled and dumped a box of angel hair spaghetti into the boiling water.
“One of these days soon,” he said, dropping ice cubes into tall tumblers, “I’m gonna have to take you out for dinner….”
She sensed that he hadn’t completed his sentence and resisted the urge to ask what he meant.
“Otherwise,” he continued, “you’re bound to think I’m some kind of cheapskate.”
No way she would turn around and let him read the excitement and relief that was no doubt written all over her face. “I can always cash in on that rain check to the Rainbow Dinner Theatre….”
Laughing, Simon fiddled with the dials of the under-cabinet radio. “What kind of music do you like? Easy listening? Country? Broadway tunes?”
“Music is music,” Julia said. But secretly she hoped he’d find a classical station, because few things better soothed her after a long, hard day than the quiet strains of Beethoven or Tchaikovsky. As if he’d read her mind, the enchanting melody of Bach’s “Brandenburg Concerto Number Four” floated into the room.
“You want to say grace, or should I?”
“Go ahead,” she told him. What would he think if he knew she hadn’t “said grace”—except to fake it for so-called Christian foster parents—since leaving this house nearly twenty years ago?
Wrapping her hand in his, Simon closed his eyes and bowed his head, his voice a near whisper as he prayed: “These simple words, Lord, come from a simple heart that overflows with awe at Your goodness. Bless this house, Father, and the humble servant who lives here. We ask that You bless us as we eat. Bless this food and the hands that prepared it. May it nourish our bodies, just as Your Word nourishes our souls. Help us to be mindful of the needs of others. We thank You, Father God, for sending Your Son into the world to save us.”
He gave her hand a little squeeze then said, “Amen.”
“Amen,” Julia echoed. “That was lovely, Simon. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said, aiming a thumb at the ceiling. “He puts the words on my heart. All I do is open my big yap.”
She laughed along with him, but Julia knew better. Often, when Gramps prayed, Granny said that all men could pray, but few had a gift for touching hearts and moving spirits. It seemed that Simon, like Gramps, had a special talent for talking with God.
She laid the napkin across her lap as Simon ladled a generous portion of spaghetti onto her plate.
“I’m so glad you’re not a ‘sauce on top’ kind of gal.”
“Granny was full-blooded Italian, born on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. She said her people did it this way to make sure no one left their table hungry.”
“I would’ve loved your granny.” Then, “Is this her recipe?”
Julia nodded. “Sort of. Hers starts with tomatoes fresh from the garden. I rarely have time for that, so I have to make do with canned stuff.”
“Well, for a guy who’s never had the pleasure of eating ‘from the garden’ sauce, this is a little taste of heaven.”
Julia loved the sound of his voice and thought she could listen to it nonstop without ever tiring of the full-bodied baritone. She encouraged him to talk about his day and learned that his office manager had resigned to nurse her husband back to health after a bad fall. Simon had offered to pay for an in-home caretaker, but Alice wasn’t having any of that. “‘My place is at his side,’” he quoted her. “And, much as I miss her, I know she’s doing the right thing.”
“Guess that’s what comes from being too good at your job,” Julia observed. “Nobody can take your place.”
Simon laughed. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it!”
She listened in quiet amazement as he described Debbie’s ineptitude for office duties. Amazing, she thought, that he managed to complain without ever really saying anything negative about the woman. Another item for her “Reasons to Like Simon” list.
“It’s good you’re such a patient man, Simon. Just think of all the good you’re doing her and her son.” Julia shrugged. “If she’s been out of the workforce as long as your cousin says, of course it’ll take awhile for her to get unrusty.”
He covered her hand with his and laughed. “‘Unrusty’?”
Julia felt the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks. “I don’t know what inspires me to make up words that way,” she said, hiding a giggle behind her free hand. “I’ve tried changing. Just not hard enough, I guess.”
“Do me a favor?”
“If I can…”
“Pay attention to Billy Joel.”
“I…” Julia snickered nervously. “Billy Joel?”
“Don’t change. Ever.”
Julia wondered if it was possible for a person’s face to explode under the pressure of a seriously deep blush. A part of her wished he’d turn her hand loose so she could hide behind it. A very small part, admittedly…
It seemed serendipitous, the way the music changed in tone and tempo just in time to save her from having to respond. But had the song just started, or had the sweet intimacy of the moment distracted them?
Simon used his fork to spear another slice of garlic bread. “Now which composer is that?”
She leaned toward the radio. “Vivaldi.”
“Are you sure…?”
“Of course I’m sure. Nobody wrote piano-violin concertos like that dude.”
Simon laughed. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody call him a dude before.” Just then another melody began. “Okay, smarty pants, who wrote that one?”
Julia listened for a moment. “Schutz, from the Baroque era.”
And so it went, back and forth, one naming Chopin, the other Handel…Puccini, Weiss, Mendelssohn…both of them laughing until their sides ached.
“Sorry I don’t have anything for dessert,” she said as they loaded the dishwasher.
“Hey,” he said, hands up in mock surrender, “I would’ve had to pass, anyway. I’m stuffed to the gills. That was some meal, kiddo.” As she tucked the last of the leftovers into the
refrigerator, he stared out the window above the sink. “Hey, is that a chiminea I see on your porch?”
She’d bought the miniature furnace weeks ago at Bargain Mart, thinking it would be nice to sip hot chocolate or tea while watching the flames dance inside its round clay belly. So far Julia hadn’t had time to test it. “Yes,” she told him, “but I don’t know if I have enough kindling or—”
Simon hunched his back and, arms dangling, grunted, “Me find wood, make big fire for Julia….”
Before she could agree or object, he was out the door. In the dwindling light she could see him gathering twigs and sticks that had blown to the ground during last week’s spring thunderstorm. He dumped a small armload of wood on the porch then disappeared into the shed and came out carrying a small saw. Next, he’d removed several long-dead limbs from an ancient oak tree and cut each into two-foot lengths. In no time, Simon had everything necessary to start and maintain a cozy fire.
Julia couldn’t have him thinking she’d been watching him the whole time, so when he started for the back door, she quickly opened the refrigerator door.
“Got a match?”
“In the drawer under the toaster.”
“What about cocoa?”
She pointed to the cabinet above the stove.
“Milk?”
“Bought a half gallon just yesterday.”
“And sugar?”
“The canister’s full.”
“When was the last time you enjoyed a cup of homemade cocoa?”
Granny used to make it every Saturday. “Movie Night” she called it. Julia, snuggled between her grandparents on the couch, held a big bowl of popcorn as they watched old Westerns on TV and sipped the sweet-smelling cocoa. “It’s been years,” she admitted.
“Then you’re in for a treat, pretty lady.”
“Is that so…?”
“Soon as I get the fire started, I’ll whip up a batch of the best cocoa you ever drank.”
His enthusiasm was contagious, and Julia grinned. “I dunno. My granny’s was pretty special stuff….”
“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin, “never competed with a grandmother before….” Brightening, he added, “Not to worry. It might not be as good as Granny’s, but it’ll warm your innards.” He paused then added, “Do me a favor?”
“Another one?” she teased.
Chuckling, Simon winked. “Four cups of milk in a saucepan,” he said. “Warmed, not scalded. If I’m not back before it starts to bubble gently, holler. Okay?”
And with that he was gone, leaving her alone to do as he asked…and eavesdrop as he talked himself through the process of building a fire. Humming, Julia acknowledged that he’d transferred his upbeat mood to her. Oh, but he was charming. And funny…and easy to be around…. She’d love nothing better than to enjoy his company on a daily basis, if only…
Suddenly sadness tapped at the fringes of her joy as she reminded herself that while spending more time in his presence would be wonderful for her, it would be grossly unfair to Simon. She didn’t think it was mere coincidence that a specific Bible verse came to mind just then: “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness?” Everything about him, right down to the brief but heartfelt prayer before dinner, proved how deeply he believed. And while she had been a follower, too many years, too many disappointments, too many prayers unanswered had convinced Julia that she was not among His chosen ones. And so she’d given up. Better not to ask at all, she’d decided, than to know you aren’t worthy of His answer.
But right now, watching him putter on the porch, listening to him whistle merrily as he went about his chore? If Julia thought for an instant that God would hear her, she’d ask the Almighty to allow her to share the rest of her life with this wonderful man.
Simon couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more clumsy.
First he’d spilled cocoa while mixing it into the small bowl of warm milk and vanilla. Soon, sugar crystals joined the brown powder that dusted her countertop. Completely nonplussed, Julia laughed good-naturedly as she wiped up every drop that slopped over the bowl’s rim while raving about his hot chocolate, claiming it was at least as good as her grandmother’s. True or not, Simon loved her for saying it.
Fact was, he loved a lot of things about her. It made him want to know what had happened to cause the light to dim in her otherwise bright golden eyes and what made her beautiful smile wane ever so slightly from time to time. He’d pray on it, that very night, Simon decided. He’d ask the Lord to provide him with discernment, so he’d know what to ask Julia—and when. And then it dawned on him—he could probably find out most of what he wanted to know from William and Hannah, who both seemed to know a lot about Julia.
He’d promised to stop by their farm in the morning to check on an ailing cow. During his last visit, he’d told William that if the heifer’s infected udder hadn’t cleared up by week’s end, antibiotics would be necessary. As he conducted the exam, made the diagnosis, and doled out the proper medications, he’d ask, and if they didn’t have the answers to his questions, maybe they’d direct him to someone who did.
Leaving Julia earlier had been harder than anything he’d done in months. The ache of loneliness reminded him of how he’d felt those first bleak days after Georgia’s funeral. They’d had their share of hurts and disappointments during their marriage, but Simon had held onto the belief that in time, they’d work out those kinks, together. Surprisingly, Georgia had endured the pain and indignity of cancer with quiet acceptance, telling him repeatedly that she expected him to remarry.
Oddly, Julia’s face, with its dancing eyes and bright smile, flashed across his mind at the thought. And that voice…why, it had the power to warm him right to the marrow of his bones. In her presence, he felt powerful. Energized. Young and enthusiastic about life. And he hadn’t felt that way since…
…since the moment before the doctor told him in quiet, somber tones that Georgia’s chances of beating the cancer were nonexistent. The man might as well have clamped vise grips around Simon’s heart. He’d decided right then and there that he’d never love another woman.
He’d focused on the sounds of nurses’ shoes squeaking down the polished floors between the OR and the waiting room. Once the double doors had hissed shut, he’d slumped into the nearest chair, held his face in his hands, and wept. Simon didn’t know how much time had passed before his sobs subsided. He only knew that when he looked up through bleary eyes, the world was not the same place.
How could God have allowed this to happen to a woman who’d tirelessly devoted herself to him, her parents, their church? As miserable as he’d been, Simon knew he must pull himself together for Georgia’s sake. He’d put on a brave face to make her last days as pleasant as possible. He went to the men’s room and splashed cold water on his face then headed for her room. Sitting beside her, he’d pressed kisses to her hands. “I’ll never love anyone as I’ve loved you,” he’d whispered. “Never.”
Despite the tubes and electrodes attached to her frail frame, Georgia beamed up at him. “You’re a sweet, sweet man, Simon Thomas, but you’re silly as silly can be.” Something akin to a weary giggle popped from her lips. “How can I enjoy heaven if I know you’re down here pining away for me? You’re barely twenty-eight years old, for the love of Jesus. You have a whole lifetime ahead of you. Of course you’ll fall in love again. It’s what I’ve been praying for ever since I learned—”
The nurse had told him that she’d refused her last dose of morphine, and at that moment, her frail body trembled and her jaw clenched with pain. Whether she’d stopped speaking because of it or because she’d been forced to admit that the cancer had won, he’d never know. But how could she think he’d replace her?
“Shh,” he’d said, patting her hand. “Just try and get some rest, will ya?”
She’d looked deep into his eyes and, with a clarity he
hadn’t seen in days, held his gaze. “It’s time, Simon,” Georgia rasped. “I can’t take it any longer.” She squeezed his hand with a strength that belied her condition. “I want to go home. To Jesus.” A lone tear oozed from one eye, leaving a shining trail as it rolled down her pale cheek. “I’m sorry to leave you, but—”
“Hey, now,” he’d interrupted. “I said hush, didn’t I?” He tried desperately to stanch the tears that threatened to spill from his own eyes. “Be quiet and rest now, you hear?”
But Georgia had sighed and shook her head. “It hurts so bad, Simon. So so bad…”
“I know, I know. You want me to call the nurse? Maybe she can give you a shot or something.”
“No. I want to be awake. And alert. Because what I’m about to tell you is important. Very important.” She laid a hand atop his. “Yes, it hurts. I’ve never been in such pain. But I won’t leave you. I’ll hold on and endure it until you promise me…”
He could see the agony glinting in her eyes, tightening her lips. She wore it like a badge of honor, and it made watching her suffer even tougher. “Anything, honey. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“Someday love will come knocking at your heart again, and—get that ‘No way Jose’ look off your face, Doctor Thomas, because this is serious stuff—and when it does, I want you to be open to it.”
If he could have run from the room at that moment, Simon would’ve bolted for the door like an Olympic sprinter. He wanted God to perform a major miracle right then and there—wanted one of His angels to descend and announce that Georgia’s cancer had been cured, that she’d live a long, productive life and they’d end up gray and wrinkled, side by side on their porch swing, watching their kids and grandkids—maybe even great-grandkids—frolic in the yard.
“You won’t turn away when it happens?”
The harsh reality of her words made him realize that she’d finally given up hope. Swallowing a sob, he had stared into her watery eyes and taken a deep breath. If he had to tell lie upon lie to make her last moments more comfortable, so be it. “All right, if that’s what you want.”
